


Whatever It Takes

by idiosyncraticWordsmith (literaryAspirant)



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Centered on the ship itself but includes side stories that bring in the rest of the gang, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Hurt and comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryAspirant/pseuds/idiosyncraticWordsmith
Summary: When you make a promise, you ought to keep it, whatever it takes. But nothing is ever that simple in the Downside. After finding a Reader in the Sandfolds, Hedwyn makes a promise - but is it a promise that he can keep, without breaking certain other vows he made? Can he bring himself to make good on his word when so much has changed since he gave it? Is it even physically possible? He never expected to be faced with such questions, but as he and his friends are plunged into the Rites, he'll fight to find the best answers he can - whatever it takes.





	1. The Sentencing

“Bring forth the next case,” the accented voice demanded.

  
The room echoed gently with the demand, as it always did when Archjustice Androbeles IX spoke out. The vast marble hall was adorned with colorful banners bearing astral sigilry and the forked star of the Eight Scribes; their colors played against the stark white of the stone, and guided the eye to the ends of the Sentencing Hall, to where the Archjustice presided. Behind him flowed the only other source of sound in the hall - the babbling rapids of the River Sclorian. Those waters terminated their worldly travels only a short ride away from the Sentencing Hall; they were reserved for the kind of people who had to be brought to this hallowed place.

  
The one brought forth by the guardsmen could not be identified at first glance. They were cloaked from head to toe in loose-fitting, grimy, gray rags, but the files indicated that it was a young Nomad woman from the Blood Border. Orphaned at a young age and sent to the heart of the Commonwealth for protection - which, of course, amounted to being safe in the city walls and little else. It was mercy to protect her from the elements, but it would be on her own terms to prove herself worthy of anything more.

“Do you know why you have been brought here, girl?” The Archjustice questioned. She remained silent. Typical of such defiant folk.

“You have been charged with one of the highest crimes in our Commonwealth - our Commonwealth, which has graciously shown you mercy enough to give you shelter and protection,” he noted disdainfully. “We who have brought you away from the Blood Border for your own good, we whom you have chosen to betray. Have you anything to say in your defense of this ignominy?”

She remained silent for a moment. The Archjustice preferred it that way. It made the Sentencings last just short enough to not bear too much on his day. Better than the more rambunctious idiots who wasted his time prattling or babbling or, worst of all, lecturing.

But then she spoke up.

  
“Have you anything to say in your defense of your false ‘mercy’?” She sighed out. She had a quiet, reserved voice, but it was firm and unyielding. The quietness of it only spoke to her self-assurance. She reminded the Archjustice of someone he had known some time ago - and it only made him certain of the course to take. People like her were too dangerous.

  
“You risk adding blasphemy to your arraigning?” The Archjustice questioned.

  
“You’ve already blasphemed enough for us both,” she spat back. “Stop wasting my time and send me down the river already.”

  
Behind his mask, the Archjustice glowered. He stood up to deliver the Sentencing.

  
“Girl,” he venomously spat, like a curse, “you are, in absence of any defense, found guilty of the crime of literacy. You shall henceforth be stripped of all names, titles, and offices - of which you have only a sparse few, I am sure - and be known only by the unholy occupation which you have taken for yourself.”

  
“Scribes, get it over with already!” She suddenly barked at the Archjustice. A guardsman took the initiative and threw her to the ground, delivering a swift kick to the ribs for good measure. Androbeles took a mental note to give the man a commendation for proactivity. He waited until the girl was brought back to her feet, coughing.

  
“As mercy guides our hand,” he recited, “we spare your life, but rid ourselves of thee.”

  
The mystic and ancient words spoken, the Sentencing was done. The guards began to shove the girl, but she shrugged them off, and walked willingly towards the end of the hall. Defiant to the end, she marched with the guards flanking her until she was at the river bank to Androbeles’ side. He turned to view her departure as she boarded the simple raft. Once she was shoved off, it would only be a few minutes to the place where the waters fell off the face of the world, taking her with them.

  
Just before the guards shoved her off, though, she looked at him. Their stares met. The blankness of his mask did little as she gazed directly into his hidden eyes. She was too far for him to note anything about her eyes, but he could tell one thing.

  
There was power in them. Power that could destroy the stars themselves.

  
The guards shoved her off, and she turned away. Androbeles shook off the experience of her glare as being little more than an exile’s final defiance. As he watched her flow off to her sentence, he noticed something about her robes: they bore a star on their back, etched in black, but it was not the forked star of the Scribes. It was modified, completed.

  
He had seen that mark before. He resolved to add it to the blacklist.

  
The exile sat on her raft as it floated down the tunnel, out into the bleak sunlight of the far side of the Commonwealth. Her ribs ached from the guard, and her eyes began to burn with tears. She knew that this day would come eventually, but does anything ever really prepare one for impending oblivion? No, not oblivion - purgatory. She remembered learning that word, ‘purgatory’. It was in a book about pre-Scribe theology. She found it boring and dense, but it was good for practicing and learning new vocabulary.

  
She thought about her other books. They were gone, she was sure of it. A decade of collection, up in smoke. The philosophical musings of Lu Sclorian, the historical writings of the Nomad Chronicler, the political treatises of Volfred Sandalwood… poof. She wondered idly if it really was worth it. She was going to die for those books. And what had they done for her?

  
She smiled as the first tears streaked down her cheek. _They gave me a life worth living._

  
She watched as the mists of the drop come to greet her. Felt her heart pounding in her chest as the cold misty air wrapped around her like a blanket. It was odd to her, really - with all the coldness and mist, it felt almost like she was home again.

  
And then, in an instant, she was falling.


	2. Miracle in the Southern Sandfolds

“See anything?” Hedwyn asked.

“Not since last you asked,” Jodariel replied dryly from the blackwagon’s controls.

“Oh, I see something!” Rukey cried out. Hedwyn immediately snapped his attention to the Cur. “More sand!”

Hedwyn sighed and rolled his eyes beneath his mask. The robes and masks kept them surprisingly cool in the desert, and they helped make sure he and his companions didn’t see how irritated each other was getting. They had spent weeks in the Sandfolds, and had spent a month beforehand saving up on food and water to survive this little expedition. Now they were dwindling on those resources, and on patience. He couldn’t blame his companions for feeling short and sarcastic. He dragged them out into the least hospitable region of the Downside for… they didn’t really even know what. For someone who could read, in the insane hopes that maybe that would help them get home.

Downspirited his companions might be, though, Hedwyn kept his hopes up high. He was going to get out of this place with his friends, no matter what. If they had to go and forage more food and come back to the Sandfolds later, they would. What else did any of them have going on? They may as well commit to a crazy chance at freedom if the other option is dying here anyway.

“I’m sure we’ll find someone someday, but right now, I’m getting bored of staring at dunes,” Rukey piped up, “and my tum’s getting riley, too. Anyone else want dinner?”

“I will refrain,” Jodariel stated simply. Hedwyn knew that attitude. She knew perfectly well they were running low on supplies and was trying to make them last.

“I’ll whip some grub up for everyone,” Hedwyn voiced, gently emphasizing the last word, going over to his cooking kit and gathering ingredients. Mostly fungi and dry, flavorless meat. He decided to treat everyone to help with morale and grabbed his special supply of kick-spice; he’d only use a small amount, of course, but it would make the meal a least a little nicer than usual. He got to work boiling up what he’d have to pass off as broth and making a stew. He was just preparing to ladle it out when he heard Jodariel call from the front.

“There is someone there,” she declared.

“What?” Rukey questioned. “Where? Oh, there! Hopping howlers, we’ve got one!”

Hedwyn left the stew where it was and dashed up to the controls at the front, standing behind Jodariel’s large form as he looked out on the dunes. Sure enough, there was a bundle of gray rags lumped on the sands. It was hard to tell if it was moving, or breathing, for that matter, but it didn’t seem buried at all, which meant it  _ had _ been moving recently.

“Let’s hope we aren’t too late,” Hedwyn prayed.

“We shall see,” Jodariel simply replied. Rukey pawed up behind them as they approached and stopped by the figure.

They all climbed off of the blackwagon, and took stock of the figure before them. It was pretty clear they had been wandering the Sandfolds for some time - the robes they wore were rags by now, and they were barely moving at all. The robes were loose-fitting, but even from the way the fabric fell on them, it was obvious they were malnourished, and probably dying of thirst. It was quite obvious they weren’t going to make it. A few moments of discussion was all it took before Jodariel reached her own decision about what to do.

“Leave us,” Jodariel asked. “I will send them to the next world.”

“We’ll get lucky next time, pal,” Rukey apologized to Hedwyn. But Hedwyn wouldn’t accept that.

“Wait,” he said, stepping forward. “They are not gone yet. I believe I may yet be able to help them.”

“Oh, come on, Hedwyn, look at them!” Rukey pointed out. “Besides, we’re losing daylight!”

Hedwyn looked at Jodariel. She sighed through her mask. “You have an hour, at most. Do what you will.”

With that, she trod back to the blackwagon. Rukey watched her go, then looked at Hedwyn, then at the exile, then back at Hedwyn.

“Well, good luck with them,” was all he said before scampering back to the blackwagon as well.

Hedwyn looked at the new exile, and kneeled down. He reached up, and unclasped his mask, pulling the boney thing away from his face and yanking his hood back, letting the fresh dry air hit his skin and hair. He shook his head to flick the moisture and sweat off of him before getting to work.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered to his new friend. “We’re going to get you through this. I promise. Whatever it takes,” he promised.

He began examining them. He pulled their hood back, and found a Nomad’s face under all the fabric and dirt, what seemed to be a woman, about his age. He shifted the sands to create a makeshift bed to put her at ease and provide some kind of comfort. He dashed back to the blackwagon, not wanting to leave her alone for too long. He brought back the entire kettle of stew he had made, plus a jug of water, and a small wooden case that contained medical supplies. These things were precious in the Downside, and it would take them equally precious time and effort to replenish these supplies, but supplies were meant to be used when needed, and right now, they were needed.

He started by washing her face. Dirt kept heat trapped, and she’d die of heatstroke if she wasn’t cooled off. As he wiped the grime away, he found a pleasant face hidden underneath it all, but it was a face that was clinging too tightly to the bones beneath it, and sagged with dehydration. She had been clinging barely to life for many days, at least. That she was still alive was incredible, but Hedwyn knew it’d take a miracle to bring her back from this.

He smiled to himself as he resolved to see if he could add ‘miracle-worker’ to his resume.

He finished washing her face off, and noticed the barest signs of consciousness in her. She mumbled gently, and he saw her eyes slowly roll over to look at him, her lids not strong enough to lift entirely.

“Hey there,” he whispered quietly. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be OK,” he promised. “Here, drink this,” he told her, offering a ladle of water. Even stew might injure her throat if she ate it with her insides all dried up. He lifted her head up for her and gently poured the water into her mouth, slowly, to make sure she didn’t choke on it. She slurped it up weakly, sighing quietly through her nostrils. He gave her a half-dozen ladles, maybe half the jug. Each time he brought a ladle to her lips she took it up a little bit more strongly, slurping down more water. By the time he brought her the last ladle, she even placed her hand over his on the ladle to tilt it more to her speed. Then a grumbling could be heard coming from her stomach.

“...Food…” she whispered. Hedwyn nodded, and brought the stew kettle over, ladling out stew. She took a gulp, then began coughing.

“Yeah, it’s not high cuisine, but you’ll get used to it,” he told her. Her eyes opened a bit more and she looked at him, a look of understanding resignation. It broke his heart to see such a sweet face accept harshness so easily. He gave her a sad smile, and continued ladling food into her mouth. She went through half the stew he had made before she was finished.

“Are you injured at all?” He asked. She shook her head, but then also grabbed the side of her chest. “Your ribs? Are your ribs hurt?”

She sighed and nodded.

“Here,” he said, grabbing the medicine box and taking out some herbs. “Eat these. They’ll dull the pain and help heal bruises and such.”

She ate them dutifully, and he examined her for other injuries, after getting a weak nod as consent to do so. As he pushed the sleeves of her robes up, he found bruises and scrapes, and administered pain-killing salves and bandages wherever he could. He did the same for her legs. He figured any torso injuries would’ve been more obvious, so he left that for her to tend to in private later.

By the time the sun finally set, his new friend was breathing evenly and her eyes were open, though she was still a far cry from the image of health. But, it wasn’t like any of them were close to being healthy, anyway, with the diet and lifestyle in the Downside being what it was. All the same, it was enough to get her upright.

“Can you move?” He asked. “We have a blackwagon, just over there. There’s more food and water, and you’ll be safe from the howlers,” he told her. She nodded her head, and with his help, she stood up and limped weakly to the blackwagon.

“Why…?” She croaked out. Hedwyn looked at her, confused.

“Why?” He repeated.

“Why… help… me…?” She said again. Hedwyn furrowed his brows.

“Because you needed it,” he stated firmly. “And because I said I would.”

“Whatever… it… takes…?” She echoed. He smiled at her. Apparently she had been more conscious than he thought when they found her.

“That’s right,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”


	3. The Book

The Reader stumbled, step by step, alongside her savior. She had been blinking in and out of consciousness when he found her - she recalled there being others? She thought they were angels of death come to collect her, wearing those masks… and it seemed the other two weren’t interested in wasting time on her. She couldn’t blame them - she was convinced she was a goner. But this one didn’t seem to willing to give up. He seemed like the type who’d die before he gave up. That’s probably what got him exiled to begin with, she mused.

The blackwagon her rescuer mentioned was just a little ways away; she was surprised to hear of a blackwagon down here, so far from the Commonwealth, but when she saw it, she barely could connect it to the prison carts she knew. How it got down here in the first place, she didn’t know, but it was certainly there, and someone had taken a lot of time to customize it. She knew they could carry about a dozen people - how many others were there? Just the three who found her?

As the Nomad man who tended to her helped her into the wagon, it seemed that was the case. There were the other two, still in their strange masks. The largest one, whose mask had horns, turned to see the two of them enter as the Nomad sat her down on a chair to rest.

“You’ve returned,” she acknowledged. “And with a friend.”

“Well look’it that!” The other, a Cur it seemed, piped up. “You actually got her moving!”

“She’ll need rest and care,” the Nomad said, “but she won’t be fading on us.”

The large woman made a soft humming sound. “Hm. If she is to rest and be cared for, we will have to leave the Sandfolds at once.”

“My thoughts exactly,” the Nomad agreed.

“Hold on a sec,” the Cur interrupted. “Not to step on the parade’s toes or anything, but do we even know if she can do it?”

“I don’t know,” the Nomad answered. “I haven’t asked her yet.”

“Come on, kid! That’s the whole reason we’ve been out in these dunes all this time!” The Cur complained as he unclasped and removed his mask, revealing his very distinguished moustache, before scampering over to the subject of the conversation, who had, indeed, been sitting right there the entire time they were talking about her. She felt a little indignant at the tactlessness of their conversation, but her exhaustion and appreciation for their rescue kept her from making an issue of it. Besides, she preferred not to speak up too much; she was a reader more than a speaker.

“Hey, don’t mean to come off as blunt or anything, sister,” the Cur started, “but can you read or what?”

The Reader raised her gaze to look at the Cur. Her hood and scarf made sure most of her expression - and face, for that matter - were well hidden, so she didn’t think the Cur could see the amused bewilderment she felt. A week ago, maybe, she was sent into the Downside for reading - and now it’s already come back up to her. Why did they want to know? Did they need a Reader for something? Or did they have a grudge to settle, or some strange contract?

It didn’t matter, though, and the Reader knew that. She was going to die down here, today or another day. She merely nodded her head.

“And there it is!!” The Cur cheered, scampering about in a circle excitedly. “Looks like it’s our lucky day!”

At that, the large woman reached up and unclasped her mask, removing it to reveal a face that was caked with years of hardship and a nest of faded blonde braiding that housed two curly horns sprouting from her head. A Demon, it seemed - the Reader had heard of them from one of her books about the Downside.

“Reader,” she greeted. “We have saved your life. In exchange, we ask for a very modest favor,” she paused, turning to look at something which the Reader had not noticed in her exhaustion until now.

A book, bound in white leather, placed on a podium.

“We need you to read this book,” she finished.

“Nice and easy, right?” The Cur added. “A bargain deal!”

“She’s still weak,” the Nomad argued. “She might still need to regain her strength.”

“To read a book?” The Cur questioned. “How hard can it be!”

“I don’t know,” the Nomad countered. “Only she does.”

“Then she will decide,” the Demon concluded, turning to the Reader. “It is your choice to read or not, Reader.”

The Reader sat a moment, gathering her strength. It may have seemed to the others that she was deliberating, but in fact, there was no hesitation in her mind - there was a book here, in the Downside, and she _had_ to read it. It might be the only one of its kind. That kind of knowledge needed to be cracked open and digested like an egg.

She stood herself up, causing the Nomad to rush over to help her, but she waved him off gently. _I can handle this_ , she communicated with her gesture. She slowly, dizzedly glided over to the podium. Her balance wasn’t entirely returned to her, but she walked with deliberation and focus, like a drunkard attempting to appear sober. She felt the eyes of the other exiles on her as she moved; she didn’t know why, but it seemed like their lives depending on this book getting read. Maybe they did, for some reason. But it wasn’t like the book had a secret, mystical ritual that could get them out of the Downside.

In the aching silence of the Southern Sandfolds, accompanied only by the creaking of the wagon and the whistling wind and the shifting sand, the Reader placed her hands on the binding of the book, adorned with a forked star, and opened it to the first page.

She had just registered the shock of what she was reading when everything went dark.

* * *

 

**_“READER!”_ **

All was dark, and yet there was light.

The Reader found most of her senses completely deadened - no sense of cold or hot, nor the feeling of her clothes on her body, not even an awareness that she _had_ a body, but she could hear, and she could see. And what a terrible sight before her: an immense mural of an Archjustice, glowing with light, its mask staring right at her.

 **_“Here I thought you might’ve learned,”_ ** the Voice boomed. **_“But here you are, repeating your crimes. And so soon after your Sentencing.”_ **

The Reader tried to talk back - but found that without a mouth or tongue, it was rather difficult.

 **_“But yes, it is true what you Read. There IS a way out,”_ ** the Voice went on. **_“Not for one such as YOU, perhaps. But others more worthy. Behold, the Rites!”_ **

The Reader turned her ethereal gaze down, and observed an immense field - a giant book, she realized - below her. One either side was planted a kind of sigil, both of which suddenly ignited into immense bonfires. Specters crowded around one - and her rescuers, the other. From their behavior, and the expressions of confusion they voiced, they were really there, and were not just some illusions conjured up.

“Woah, wait, where are we?!” The Cur questioned loudly.

“It is true, then…” the Demon woman expressed, placing her mask back on.

“There _is_ a way back,” the Nomad added, before looking around. “The Reader… where is she?”

“I sense her presence,” the Demon assured.

“Yeah, I guess I can, too,” the Cur agreed. “Like she’s out there watching over us.”

The Nomad looked around, and though he couldn’t know it, stared directly at where the Reader was watching, as if he was gazing into her ethereal eyes.

“If you’re out there, my friend,” he called out, “we place our trust in you to see us through!” He said, before putting his own mask on.

 **_“Such faith,”_ ** the Voice mused idly. **_“A shame it is placed in one so unworthy. Now listen closely, and learn the ways of the Rites…”_ **

The Reader attended to the Voice’s instructions, noting how fortunate he was that she couldn’t reply to any of his remarks. She quickly learned how to reach out and guide each of her allies, telling them when and how to move. Remarkably, they listened to her instructions quite readily, and without commentary. The Nomad, in particular, was quick to put his trust in her, for some reason. As the celestial orb descended, she found that she was already strategizing how best to plunge it into the enemy’s pyre. The specters opposing her allies were competent, but she was a fast learner, and in short measure sputtered their flames into nothingness without much ceremony or event. All the same, her allies celebrated the mock victory. Or rather, the Nomad celebrated, and his friends followed his lead. She found his constant high spirits touching, if a bit fake. No one was that naturally pleasant.

 **_“There, now you understand,”_ ** the Voice concluded as the instructive exercise came to an end. **_“I would tell you to turn back, you know. To turn away from this path, and forget that you ever found this book,”_ ** he noted. The Reader, furious with his incessant commentary, turned her spectral gaze to him and tried to bore a hole through his ethereal mask with her phantasmic glare. It seemed to register to him on some level.

 **_“But all those such as you?_ ** ” He said, the disapproving shaking of his head evident in his tone despite the immobility of his visage.

**_“You never listen.”_ **


	4. Orientation

Hedwyn came to his senses rather quickly once the ordeal was over. He didn’t know what happened, or where they went, but he did know that they were back in the blackwagon, safe and sound - most of them, anyway. The Reader was unconscious on the floor in front of the book, and Jodariel and Rukey were just coming to, as well. Hedwyn pried the mask off his face and dashed over to the Reader, examining her to see if she was injured.

“What the heck was all that?” Rukey asked as he took his own mask off.

“A training ground, I believe,” Jodariel replied, baring her face as well. “We could all sense the Reader’s influence on us as we navigated the trial. It was to prepare us, and her, for the road ahead.”

“Road ahead?” Rukey echoed. “So we’ve got more of that coming?”

Jodariel simply nodded, looking at Hedwyn as he finished examining the Reader. “Is she hurt?”

“No,” Hedwyn answered. “I think that just took a lot out of her.”

“I guess reading really is that hard, huh?” Rukey quipped. At that moment, however, the Reader groaned gently, and lifted a hand to her head. Hedwyn went to her.

“Are you alright?” He asked her. She nodded. She seemed to be a very quiet person; she could talk fine, he figured, but chose not to. He wondered if she was moon-touched, or if it was a personal quirk.

“Not too sure what exactly went on there, sis,” Rukey piped up, “but I guess we’ve got you to thank for showing us the ropes?”

The Reader merely shrugged and nodded noncommittally. Hedwyn couldn’t help but smile at the way she communicated so clearly. It became a little bit of a game in his head to see if he could get her to actually speak.

“So… the book,” He started, “what does it say?”

The Reader seemed thoughtful for a moment, before carefully pulling herself back onto her feet, and casting a look over at the tome on the podium. Hedwyn wondered what she was thinking, what strange knowledge filled her head when she stared at those pages. Maybe she’d teach him some reading sometime. If she decided to stick around long enough for that, of course.

“The book…” she said. Her voice was still quite coarse from the dryness, and she coughed to clear her throat. “It’s the Book of Rites,” she explained. “The one written by the Scribes themselves.”

“It details a path to return home, does it not?” Jodariel asked. The Reader nodded.

“It does. I’ll need time to go through the rest of the book, but I think I understand the basics,” she answered.

“Give us a crash course, sis,” Rukey requested. Hedwyn interrupted at this point.

“The Reader has already been through quite a lot,” he said. “Perhaps we should let her rest for the night before interrogating her.”

“I can decide when I’ve been through enough,” the Reader retorted. Hedwyn was admittedly a little surprised at the firmness of her voice, despite its coarse frailty. He realized he was speaking out of turn on her behalf, and resolved to remind himself that while she was weak, she was still her own person.

“My apologies,” Hedwyn said, bowing his head.

“None needed,” she assured plainly, before turning to Rukey. “We have to travel… somewhere. The stars will show us where, I’m told. Then we have to perform a Rite against another group, like you all did… a bit ago,” she paused, trying to find words, it seemed. “We just keep doing that, and eventually, if we win enough, we get to go home.”

“Sounds straightforward,” Hedwyn observed, smiling. He liked it when things kept simple.

“Provided our Reader chooses to remain,” Jodariel reminded, staring at the Reader, asking the question silently. Hedwyn looked at her as well, his smile fading. He didn’t want her to bail on them, but what could he do if she did? Nothing. But then they’d be back to square one…

“Of course,” the Reader assured. “You saved my life. I need to repay you more than just reading a single page. That, plus a chance to read the Book of Rites itself… there’s no way I’d pass a chance like that up.”

Hedwyn smiled widely. “It’s settled then. We’ll travel wherever the stars bring us, we’ll win in these Rites, and we’ll all win our freedom, together. All of us,” he declared. Jodariel nodded plainly, and Rukey made a sound of agreement. The Reader merely smiled. Hedwyn liked to think it was a happy, hopeful smile, and not a sad one that was only pretending to be hopeful. Before he could think on it more, Jodariel spoke up.

“Reader,” she said, “you may call me Jodariel.”

Rukey slapped a paw on his forehead. “Manners! Rukey, Rukey Greentail, at your service!” He introduced, taking one of her hands in both his front paws and shaking it vigorously. She was caught off guard for a moment, but then smiled and laughed pleasantly at Rukey’s charisma. Then, she looked expectantly at Hedwyn, who smiled back.

“I’m Hedwyn,” he said simply. “What’s your name?”

At that, the Reader paused. He and the others watched her patiently and politely; why she hesitated, they didn’t know, but Hedwyn had a feeling she had a good reason for it. Maybe she wanted a new name for a new life, or maybe the fall to the Downside hit her head hard enough to knock her own name out of her.

“Just call me Reader,” she finally said, her tone certain, her face determined. It was like she was taking on a dare. Hedwyn felt a reflexive respect for her. She reminded him of the one he was fighting to be with again…

“Reader,” Jodariel replied simply, “if it is the stars which will guide us, then I suggest we gain our bearings.”

“I agree,” the Reader stated, going to step out of the wagon. “I certainly hope they tell us to get out of these wastes…”

“If they don’t, we will ignore them,” Jodariel promised. “Freedom is worth nothing to the dead.”

The two of them stepped out, leaving Rukey and Hedwyn in the blackwagon. Once the door shut closed behind them, Rukey glanced over at Hedwyn.

“While we’re down in the wastes,” he started, “wanna go looking for birds?”

Hedwyn furrowed his brows, upset that he’d ask a question like that in such an off-handed way. “Not funny, Rukey.”

Rukey seemed off-guard. “Sorry, didn’t mean for it to be.”

“She’s not down here,” Hedwyn affirmed, as much to convince himself as to convince Rukey. “And she’s never going to end up down her. She’s not even in the Commonwealth, and she’s not fighting on the Border anymore. The chances of her getting exiled are none.”

“Fair enough,” Rukey supposed. “Hear anything from her lately?”

Hedwyn kept his mouth shut for a moment. He entertained the idea of lying, but his sense of honesty and loyalty to his friends overrode that idea pretty quickly. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, we’ve been in the dunes,” Rukey figured. “Messenger imp probably likes waiting till its client is at least in the Prairies before swooping for them.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Hedwyn acknowledged, staring through the window at the stars outside. They shined brightly, but one in particular, to the northeast, shined especially brightly. He wondered which star it was, and what made it so brilliant tonight.

At that moment, the door opened back up, and the Reader returned with Jodariel in tow.

“Gol,” the Reader said. “That star, on the horizon, to the northeast,” she indicated, pointing out the window at the very star Hedwyn was musing about. “That’s Gol, the South Star.”

“Gol?” Rukey repeated. “As in--”

“The Ridge of Gol,” Jodariel finished. “According to the Reader, we have little time to spare, but with haste we should arrive in time for the Rite.”

“We’re sure?” Hedwyn asked to confirm. The Reader nodded her head. Hedwyn nodded back, with as much determination as he could muster.

“Then let’s get some rest. First thing in the morning, we’re heading for the Ridge of Gol.”


	5. Departing the Sandfolds

The exiles weren’t kidding when they said first thing in the morning. The Reader was roused by Jodariel much too soon for her liking, and could barely keep her eyes open as she dressed herself. The pain in her body still stung her, and her left leg, in particular, didn’t want to cooperate. She wondered how badly it was really injured; Hedwyn tended to her superficial injuries, but when she crashed into the Downside, that leg took a particular beating. Maybe it was broken, or cracked; either way, she nursed it as best she could, keeping weight off and favoring her other leg.

It took her time, but she eventually managed to clamor out from the makeshift bunk she was granted and out into the common room, though it was empty. She limped out to the back of the blackwagon, where all the clutter was, including the Book. She noticed the sigil set in the floorboards of the blackwagon - a stylized cresting moon, with orange on blue. It matched the robes the exiles wore when they found her. Were they some kind of cult?

“There you are,” she heard Hedwyn’s voice say. “We’re almost done getting ready to set out for the day, where have you been?”

“Nursing this leg,” she told him plainly. “I don’t think painkilling herbs are helping it.”

“What’s wrong with it?” He asked, approaching her. He wasn’t wearing those robes anymore - she saw them, with more of their kind, hanging in a corner. Instead he was dressed comfortably, like most Nomads she knew near the Blood Border. Was he from there?

“Hurts to put weight on,” she explained. “If you’re almost done setting the wagon up to go, is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Well if you’re injured, you should keep resting,” he said.

“I’m not going to take your food and care and not pay you back for it,” she insisted. “I appreciate the hospitality, but I don’t get the feeling people survive down here by giving out and never giving back.”

Hedwyn smiled at that. “Well, if you insist. Tell you what,” he said, going over to a bunch of crates. “This is all our supplies. You can take inventory, since you can write it down.”

“And what am I to write with?” She asked, forgetting not to sound too condescending. Being an isolated literate meant she always forgot other people didn’t know what all went into reading and writing. Of course it wouldn’t cross the boy’s mind that they had neither ink nor parchment. Hedwyn seemed a little embarrassed by the foolish mistake, but thought for a moment.

“Maybe… you can etch it on some wood? We’ve got bark from our firewood you can scratch on, and you can use, I don’t know, my spare knife to write with?” He offered. The Reader considered this, then shrugged.

“It’s the best I can ask for, I suppose,” she assented, taking the knife which Hedwyn offered. It was a small thing, more for cutting something already dead than alive, she figured. “Besides, better an inconvenient job that no job.”

“Every job down here is inconvenient,” Hedwyn said in good spirits, going over to the pile of cooking gear. “But you get used to it.”

At that point, Jodariel and Rukey stepped into the blackwagon. Jodi was dressed in a breastplate, with a pin which seemed similar to Hedwyn’s own. Rukey was the image of class in his purple vest and jewelry. Idly, the Reader wondered how long it took him to put together an ensemble like that in the Downside, and how much effort went into protecting it from the elements.

“We are ready to depart,” Jodariel announced, before looking over at the reader. “You would do well to make yourself of use, Reader. Else our journey will be short.”

“What Jodi means is,” Rukey cut in, “we’ve all gotta pull our weight.”

“Already talked to her about it, guys,” Hedwyn assured. “She’s all on board.”

“Hmph,” Jodariel uttered. “Very well.”

She said nothing else before going to the front of the blackwagon. In a few seconds, the Reader could feel the lurch of inertia as the sound of gears rotating crackled through the air, and the blackwagon was off.

“Don’t mind Jodi,” Rukey assured the Reader. “She’s always cranky.”

“Just looking out for the best of the group,” Hedwyn corrected. “She’s been down here longest of us all. She’s survived so long I don’t think she’s got the patience for being, well patient. But she means well.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” Rukey dismissed. “Anyway, if you need me, I’ll be up on lookout for howlers,” he said, before making his way elsewhere in the blackwagon. The Reader, finally left to her work, seated herself, and began going through the crates of cargo to take stock. She had just begun etching on her plank of wood when Hedwyn came up to her with a plate.

“Here,” he said, setting the plate of foodstuff next to her. “Breakfast, since you missed it earlier.”

“Thank you,” she accepted, taking a bite. It wasn’t pleasant, but it also didn’t make her retch. “I’m guessing you’re the group’s chef?”

“As close to it as I can be,” he laughed, going back to his pots and pans, apparently cleaning them without water. Too precious a resource to waste on a luxury like clean kitchenware, the Reader figured. Still, she noticed he paid good attention to the cookery. Scratching and brushing dried up and slimy gunk from every nook and cranny. It was probably the only way to make the stuff last.

“Is all the food down here… like this?” She asked, trying not to insult his cooking.

“Tasteless? At best, yeah,” he answered. “But I’ve gotten pretty good at making it tasteless at worst.”

If Hedwyn’s talent was making the food this mediocre, the Reader resolved never to try eating anything he didn’t make. The thought of what this stuff would taste like raw, or made by a less experienced hand… it made her stomach turn. Or maybe that was the stuff she was actually eating.

The conversation had a lull after that. The Reader tried to think of a topic to pass the time; but everything she came up with, which would be small talk in the Commonwealth, felt off-limits to ask down here. Where was he from, how long had he been here, why was he here… she had the feeling that such topics weren’t polite conversation between strangers in a place nobody  _ wanted _ to be.

“So…” she tried. “Have you ever been here before? The, uh, desert I mean.”

“Only once,” he said. “When they first flushed me down.”

“Oh, of course,” she acknowledged. That was… a stupid question. The river dropped them  _ all _ off in the wastes.

The Reader resolved to keep her mouth shut and focus on her work. She didn’t know what most of the items in the box were called, though, and called on Hedwyn’s expertise several times to instruct her on what to list each item as. She wondered how many items he had learned names for and many he had named himself. Some of them were… especially creative.

“Wait, what did you call this?” She asked, indicating the ball of what seemed to be roots.

“A tuber tumor,” he repeated.

“You just made that up,” she insisted.

“Well, yeah! Someone’s got to name it!” He laughed in good fun. The Reader allowed herself to laugh with him.

“And what’s this?” She inquired, indicating the extremely large and jagged leaves all kept in a small container in one corner.

“Ripperblade, it grows just north of here, in the Prairies,” he explained. She reached over to pick one up to examine it - it looked like a serrated knife, and it piqued her interest - but Hedwyn grabbed her hand and stopped her. “Woah woah woah!” He exclaimed. “You don’t wanna touch them with your bare hands, they’re toxic to touch.”

She looked at him, incredulous. “What do you use them for?”

“Cooking,” he answered. “They’re only poisonous if eaten raw.”

“Well, I hate to be the guys who had to experiment until he found that out,” she remarked. Hedwyn merely shrugged.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he quoted. “Besides, going out by toxic food isn’t the worst way to go out down here.”

“And what is, I wonder?” The Reader inquired, more out of idle curiosity than anything else.

“Well, I figure everyone’s got their own opinion,” Hedwyn said. “I know a guy who thinks getting eaten by howlers is the worst, I don’t think so, though.”

“No?” The Reader asked. “What  _ do _ you think is the worst way to go?”

Hedwyn merely chuckled awkwardly and stood up. “That’s kind of a morbid question,” he noted.

“Well, we’re in a morbid situation,” she responded. “Riding around in an endless purgatory for crimes against the Commonwealth. We’re already dead. Unless these Rites do manage to free us, which isn’t guaranteed.”

“They’re going to free us,” Hedwyn emphasized, returning to his cooking. “Maybe not soon, but eventually.”

The Reader shrugged, going back to inventory, now with a more complete understanding of the terminology. “I suppose. I’ll have to study the Book more to figure out more about how it works. You haven’t answered my question, by the way,” she reminded. He looked up at her from his cooking. “What do you think is the worst way to go?”

He sighed and went back to his cooking. She was just debating whether or not to pry when he spoke up.

“I don’t think any way is the worst, regarding  _ how _ ,” he said, “but the worst  _ time _ , I think, is when you’ve still got unfinished business.”

The Reader nodded. It was a more sagacious answer than she expected from Hedwyn. She sensed hidden depths in him; he understood more about the world than most people, for some reason. Then again, she figured that every exile probably could have the same said for them. There was a reason they were all down here, and it wasn’t for being normal.

“What about you?” He asked. “Only fair to answer your own question, I think.”

The Reader thought for a moment. “Going without a fight.”

Hedwyn smiled and nodded at that, approvingly. The Reader sensed their conversation was at an end for now - you can only chat with a stranger for so long before you start longing to do something else, at least, that’s how the Reader felt. They both focused on their respective chores for the remainder of their time.


End file.
